


Critical Damage

by jab279



Category: Titanfall
Genre: Action, Explicit Language, Gen, Gritty, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:46:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10939161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jab279/pseuds/jab279
Summary: Pilot Melanine Riggs is having a shit day. The Typhon raid is in shambles, the 9th fleet is scrambled in a low-orbit mess, and she's left to die after a knife fight with a Grunt goes bad. Night is falling and extraction is nowhere to be found, but that won't stop her.





	1. Chapter 1

“Critical Damage to Pilot. Please seek medical assistance immediately.”

I’m flat on my back, writhing and clutching at my neck, as sickeningly warm blood pours from it. Red alerts flash on my HUD, but I don’t need a computer to tell me I’m dying. A drop pod explodes over me, muffled by my helmet, while I’m deafened by the screams over my radio. Everything is too quiet and too loud at the same time.

I draw in a breath but get a lungful of deep red blood, and I lose more precious seconds hacking up my own throat. The pain is a dull roar but I know I’m in shock and that the worst is yet to come. My vision goes grey and a small part of my brain informs me that darker blood is deoxygenated and I realize I’m probably gonna die here, on a backwater planet, throat slit by a fucking IMC Grunt.

Hands grab my shoulder, pulling me up to look at the night sky. A Militia soldier looks down at me with wide eyes. His face is unscarred and he grips his rifle like he’s afraid of it.

“A Pilot! I found a Pilot!” he yells, voice hoarse and strained. “She’s hurt! Get a medic over-”

He stumbles back, clutching his chest, and I see clean-drilled holes leak red on his armor. My muscles jerk in an involuntary reflex to dive for cover as more fire pings off the rock shelf above, but hit nothing as the soldier falls to his knees and joins me on the ground.

Joins me… on the ground. Something’s wrong with that, but I can’t place it. I can only focus on the iron wall in my mind that blocks the pain and rising tide of hysteria.

A drone roars over the valley’s ridge and floats over the retreating Militia line. “Attention Frontier citizens. You have been charged with trespassing on the property of the Interstellar Manufacturing Corporation,” it blares in a canned voice.

A rocket streaks out from behind a hill and catches it in a fiery embrace, sending it spinning out of my vision. I blink as a wave of heat hits my face.

I have no time left to waste. I push myself forward and grab the soldier's pack and my weak fingers struggle to find the zipper. Blood drains onto my chest, trickling down through the cracks in my armor, and I feel the pressure on my neck decrease. My lungs instinctively draw in and I get some air instead of blood this time.

My vision shutters like a misaligned holoscreen and I stumble, aware of depth again. My jumpkit seems to be twenty pounds heavier but I clench my teeth and continue sifting through the soldier's pack. A grenade, several stray bullets and a photograph of some girl are all I find and the pit in my gut deepens, but then my trembling fingers find an extra medpatch stuffed in his boot.

I press its adhesive side to my throat as a clipped, controlled voice comes on the radio and says, “Pilot Melanine Riggs, this is callsign Advisor. Your Titan is prepping in Bay 5 of the _Aurelius_. Marking your HUD for drop.”

‘ _No!_ ’ I want to scream. _‘Fuck no, send medical help! Pilot down!’_ Instead I barely manage a gurgle.

“EMPs in high atmosphere are disrupting our comms, so Titan ID Victor November 2577 will be dropping in shielded mode. Get there quick. IMC forces are moving west, back into the mountains.”

Clouds pulse with light, scattering above me as orbital forces drop down the gravity well. They scream down past the ridges of cubed stone and I can’t tell whether or not they’re reinforcements or IMC.

I tap my radio and try to respond past the medpack, but the heat of the cauterization steals the air from my throat. At least I can breathe but now it’s too fast. In and out. In and out. My tongue feels heavy and I can’t speak and I’m cut off and I am certainly _not_ fit to operate a Titan.

My radio crackles and I brace for the final, fatal words that I don’t want to hear. “Pilot Riggs, prepare for Titanfa-” The line goes dead.

The sky lights up again, and a rolling boom rips the overcast cloud layer apart. I see a small dot of red blossom high in the sky and wink out. An alert on my HUD informs me that was the _Aurelius_. My comms explode as the rest of the Militia forces on Typhon let out a collective ‘what the fuck.’ They cut off as the EMP hits the atmosphere, leaving me in silence.

_I guess the IMC ships got tired of slinging flak and started nuking shit._

The medkit lets out a beep and I realize that it’s been done for a while. I haul myself off the ground, bracing for a headrush but getting none. At least the Militia still stocked the good drugs. I exhale once, then bring shaking fingers to my chin and slip them under the white plastic of the medkit.

A deep, knotted scar slants diagonally down my throat, the newly grown skin flaking off as I touch it. My helmet receives the medkit’s report and I stare at the little flashing letters on the screen: _‘User stabilized. Critical damage to larynx has rendered it unusable. Date until rehabilitation: not available.’_

I know I’m lucky. The knife could’ve severed my windpipe instead of grazing it. My arterial veins could’ve been hit. It could have killed me, yet a small voice inside me asks if that is better than losing my voice forever. I don’t have an answer.

What I do know is that I need to move, get to the extraction point, and get off Typhon.

The IMC forces are gone, along with the Grunt that left me on the ground, having fallen back to the research base that was supposed to be gone by now. Broken Titans lay across the valley, illuminated by the red flames of munitions burning. Their Operating Systems call out in garbled speech for a Pilot that will never return, slowly breaking down as the fire destroys their data cores. The sky is quiet, but the sounds of gunshots roll off the cubed stone hills towards me. Militia forces are still here. Soldiers that I could help.

An explosion shatters a rocky bluff not too far from my vantage point, and I see a squad of Militia soldiers stumble out from the cloud of dust. I can hear their hoarse shouting as they dive down for cover. Gunshots pepper the smoke and I realize they’re running from IMC troops.

My gloves stretch as my hands ball into fists.

I take inventory as quickly as I can. My jumpkit is unscathed, the harness affixing it to my waist still secure. Its nozzles are clear of debris and the fuel gauge reads green. My knife is still in its arm sheath. One grenade hangs on my belt, words scratched onto the grey metal that read: _Use upon capture._

My rifle is gone, so I draw my pistol and slide a magazine into the weathered groove of the magwell. The slide snaps forward and I feel a little bit better. Twelve shots. My voice may be broken but my hands still work.

The Militia soldiers, still exchanging fire with the IMC Grunts, are down the gradual slope of the valley and behind a deep gorge choked with boulders and vines. Depth warnings go off on my HUD as I peer over the edge and I make a mental map of how I’ll cross without killing myself. The clusterfuck of rocks below may be impassable by Titan or Grunt, but not for a Pilot.

I lift off, my first jump taking me down to the edge of the gorge, a steep bank of stone that slants down into a straight drop. Another has me running along the vertical wall, jumpkit at a slow burn to keep altitude, my hand just barely touching the stone.

I leap sideways and burst my jets. My feet slam onto a rock shelf and I immediately lift off again, carrying me a short distance before I hit the ground and slide on my knees. A quick burst gets me into the air again. I repeat this, gaining speed, until I’m half-running half-skipping across the plain like a rock on a pond.

A Militia soldier trips and goes down, his squadmates dragging him back behind cover, and I push my pace even harder. My voice may be broken but my legs still work.

I fly past shattered boulders and rocky crags, jumping and riding with practiced ease. My breath is hot, misting my helmet and obscuring the high-heart rate warnings it displays. I let the auto-defoggers do their work as I sprint the final stretch, set my jumpkit’s thrust to max, and leap over the Militia soldiers and into the rocky breach.

For a moment I see nothing but grey and hear only the rushing of air outside my helmet. Then the shouting reaches my ears and gunfire blossoms in the dust cloud. I aim for the first Grunt I see and slam down onto him. He doesn’t even see me coming and falls to the ground with my knife in his forehead.

A second Grunt turns his gun on me, mouth open, and misses three shots before I return fire and put one in his chest. Eleven left.

The rest of the IMC squad scatters and moves back into the lower visibility of now what I see is a cave, their guns barking and puncturing the chalky haze with clear-cut lines. I duck low and run to cover behind a rocky spur.

Bullets whiz over my head as I peek over and fire three bullets at the offending source. I hear a scream and duck back down. Eight shots left.

From over my cover and deeper in the cave I hear someone say, “Great, a fucking Pilot. Fan out and prep ‘nades, we can’t afford to waste more bullets.”

I make a mental note to go for what sounds like the leader first.

As soon as I hear the pin of a grenade release I burst my jumpkit, sending me skidding across the stone floor to the dead soldier. I rip my knife out of his face and charge into the smoke.

I immediately slam into something, hard. The air goes out of my lungs and I feel the iron grip of cold metal around my wrist. A singular red eye stares down at me. I barely have time to think _oh shit_ before I’m on the ground and the Spectre is on top of me, twisting my arm back, servos whirring as its knee grinds my back onto the stone.

My vision fragments and I see the world through a kaleidoscope lens. I point my gun in a vague _up_ direction and pull the trigger until the pressure on my chest decreases. The robot goes slack on top of me. I get a breath in and my vision snaps back, revealing an IMC Grunt peering down at me, gun to the side and eyebrows raised. I shoot him in the head.

The Spectre is surprisingly easy to wiggle out from underneath and it slumps down, open circuits sparking from holes in its armor as it loses power. I check my pistol. Two bullets left.

“Seriously? The ‘nade’s a fucking dud?” says the disembodied voice of the IMC leader, his voice tinny to my gunshot-accustomed helmet filters. “Alright, weapons free.”

I barely get my head to the ground before a fan of bullets scythes through the smoke and ping into the stone behind me. I’m already on the move, crawling diagonally, gritting my teeth, moving toward the remnants of the IMC squad. I hear five voices and I only have two shots.

The back of the cave is smoke-free and has no exits. I haul myself up and kick forward, into the last cavern, and I am greeted by one Grunt holding a rifle and the rest clutching handguns.

In that moment I realize they’re in a worse spot than the Militia soldiers I’m protecting, but that doesn’t stop me from emptying my last two shots into the rifleman. He goes down with a sigh. The other four stare at me like I’m an alien.

I throw the knife into the first Grunt and sprint after it, ripping it out as soon as it lands in her chest and spin to the left, slitting the throat of another soldier who is halfway through drawing his pistol. As if I am merely a passenger, I follow the knife as it cuts through the squad, one by one.

Soon, the cave is silent. I fall to my knees and clean the blade on my pants.

I hear the shuffling of feet as the battered Militia soldiers file into the breach. One mutters, “Holy shit.” I can’t pinpoint who it is when I rise and turn to face them.

They stand in a loose circle, silent. A man with a shotgun slung over his shoulder fiddles with a medical patch on his dirty uniform. Another soldier, a woman, holds a pistol in one hand and a bruised apple in the other. A third loads his rifle with slow hands, staring at me with hooded eyes, dead to the world. He drops his magazine and squints at it through dusty glasses.

I had expected to feel some kind of kinship with these people. That we would all cheer and sit around a campfire together, trading stories, until evacuation came. Apparently, I was wrong. They stare with wary eyes and stand close together. Not seeing me, just a faceless Pilot. They see the helmet, the jumpkit, and the inevitable Titan from above. They prefer me as a faceless butcher rather than a real person.

A fourth soldier steps forward, dust caked to her face and a crescent-shaped wound bleeding above her eye. I notice the other soldiers watch her with quiet deference. Her brown eyes meet mine and I see she’s slightly taller than me. “Sir, Senior Rifleman Riyah Vicks,” she says.

I take off my helmet, letting my hair fall back, and offer a hand, wishing I could answer with my own voice.

Vick’s eyes dart down to my blood caked neck, and back up to my ragged eyes. “Sir?” she asks, taking a tentative step closer. “That your blood?”

I point to my neck and draw a line across it.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

I take out my knife and repeat the action, hoping my eyes tell the rest of the story.

Her brow furrows. “Oh.” She moves closer and says, “What’s your condition?”

Hands up, I back off instinctively. Something in me doesn’t want her this close, but I fight it and take a deep breath. She’s Militia. She _won’t_ hurt me.

I peel off the medkit from my newly healed skin, trying not to enjoy the sweet release as the caked blood peels off, and hand it to her. “Critical damage to larynx has rendered it unusable,” she reads. “Date until rehabilitation… Shit.”

The soldier with the medical patch throws up his hands, turns, and kicks a rock. “Great. A Pilot shows up to help and we get a fuckin’ cripple.”

“Callahan,” Vicks says, her voice cracking like a whip. “Be quiet or be useful.”

“If the medkit can’t do it then there's nothing that I can do here,” Callahan snaps back. He looks at me and my eyes catch his. Something there makes him pause, and he says with a softer tone, “I’m sorry, sir, but nothing short of serious medical help can fix ya. I know someone on Harmony, though. My mum. She could help.”

I open my mouth reflexively before closing it and smiling at him. He does a little double take and dances in his boots. I wonder if this is the first time he’s ever spoken to a Pilot.

“Callahan, why don’t you go check the perimeter? The Pilot and I need to talk,” Vicks says, eyeing him sharply. She turns back to me. “Sir, can I see your identification? Not that I don’t trust you, I just want to know your name.”

I nod and raise my left arm, tapping on my wrist computer, and show her my Militia Record.

“Melanine Riggs. First class. Almost made it into SRS,” Vicks says. “Impressive.” She wipes some dust off her face and puts a hand to her chin. “Riggs. I think I’ve heard of them before. They were one of the first farming families on Evergreen, right?”

I nod.

“Then what’s a Riggs girl doing in a Militia Pilot uniform? I figured you would be waiting out the war on the other side of the barrier, cozy in your own private ship.”

I’m halfway through another nod before I realize that won’t cut it. Frowning, I drum my fingers on my leg before I get an idea. I bring up my wrist computer and pull up the text interface, then type with one hand before showing her, ‘ _Someone had to butcher the animals on the farm. I figured it wouldn’t be that different.’_

Vicks lets out a low chuckle. “And of course you found out it was.”

I reply, ‘ _Yeah, I did find that.’_

“Most new recruits do. When the IMC came knocking who _wasn’t_ angry? These are our planets, and a deed can’t change that. Too bad we have to pay for them in blood.”

Her words strike me as odd and I realize that she’s just reciting Militia rhetoric to make me comfortable. She deserves better than Senior Rifleman, but I’ve never been much to care about rank. I write, ‘ _Can’t help it either way. Just the way things are.’_ I look up at her and shrug.

The corner of her mouth tugs up. “You know, even with the computer you don’t talk much,” she says.

I smile and type: ' _Never did.'_


	2. Chapter 2

Later in the night I find a secluded alcove of the cave that is untouched by the stink of blood. Sitting there, I stare out at the valley through a gash in the rock wall, absently tapping on my knee, listening to the squad bed down for the night. They don’t want me down there with them. It was clear to me in their clipped words and sideways glances far before Vicks asked me to keep watch.

I try to lose myself in minor tasks, seeking oblivion in stripping the CAR they gave me. I work under the moonlight, unloading and reloading it, practicing in the near dark until I can do it with my eyes closed. I count and arrange the ninety-seven bullets, spit-polish them, then blow any dust out of the magazines before reinserting them.

Finally I slump down against the rocky wall, field blanket pulled over me, wishing I could fall asleep in my Titan’s warm cockpit with my head laying on the heat sinks of his humming reactor. My thoughts wander to VN and I wonder if the metal bastard made it to the ground, or if the _Aurelius_ took him with her in orbit.

Boots crunching on gravel announce someone approaching me far before a silhouette materializes out of the cave’s gloom. Growing in definition as it gets closer, I see that it’s the third member of Vicks’ squad. I don’t know his name, but I notice that his trimmed beard and glasses are now free of dust.

He tenses for a moment, staring at his boots, then his posture sags and he walks up to me.

“You see those lights in the sky? Those aren’t stars,” he says, pointing to the gash in the rock. “The ones that move, those are ships in orbit. A whole fleet.”

I cock my head to the side, eyebrows rising.

“Oh, yeah. I suppose I should introduce myself.” He salutes. “Trevor Lawton. Rifleman, or something. I’m not the greatest shot.” He laughs a little bit and rubs the back of his head. “Just wanted to introduce myself, as I was a little out of it when you found us.”

My wrist computer beeps as I power it up. He gives it an odd look. I write, _‘It’s okay. Shell shock will do that to you.’_ I show it to him, then erase it and type, ‘ _What was that about stars?’_

He’s right. I look back up and see a cluster of lights in the sky that move slowly down and east, untethered from the cosmic wheel of stars.

“A benefit of having an astronomy degree,” he says. “You can tell if they’re IMC or Militia too, from the orbit, although that’s much more complicated. I could teach you though.”

 _Why is an astronomer in the Militia?_ I think. _And did he just come up here to talk about how smart he is?_

 _‘Another time,’_ I write. _‘Are you here to talk or do you need something?’_

His eyes widen. “Oh! Yeah. Vicks sent me up here to get you. She found your Titan.”

VN-2577 made it down the gravity well? I open my mouth reflexively to ask _how the fuck,_ but he raises his hand and says, “Go ask Vicks, not me. Her and Callahan are planning a route to the evacuation zone and want your input.”

I nod, then pull myself up onto my feet. He watches silently as I sling the CAR over my shoulder and cock my pistol, check the ammo readout, and put the safety on. I holster it and turn to Trevor. He starts turning away and I hold up a finger to stop him, then point to what I just wrote on my wrist computer.

He reads it and chuckles. “Who is the person with the apple? That’d be Sara. She hardly talks to anyone.”

I write, ‘ _Why?’_

“Like the rest of us, she has something waiting for her back home.” He shrugs. “It just so happens that she’s much more tightly bound to it.”

I don’t need to know anything more. Everyone has a name at the bottom of their Militia military record, one that they wrote on a small, black-lined sheet of paper the day they signed up. That’s the first person they call if you die. To some, that name is what keeps them together; to others, it’s what shakes them apart. I make a mental note to talk to Vicks about her.

Trevor follows me back to down to the main part of the cave and points to another tunnel that leads deeper in. “That’s the real entrance, the one we didn’t blow up with these godforsaken bombs. Vicks and Callahan went out to secure your Titan. If you hurry you can catch them before they arrive.”

I nod and set off, walking past Sara, who is just finishing her apple. She tosses the core over her shoulder and stares at the ground. My eyes dart down to the P2016s that rest on each of her legs. I pass her silently, following the waypoint on my wrist computer that Trevor marked.

Callahan’s pitched voice is the first thing I hear. Then the low hum of an ionized shield reaches my ears and a weight in my gut lifts. I round a boulder, having walked through the cave and over a small plain, and find Vicks. Her face is washed blue by the light of a Titan’s drop-shield.

I see him next. His lean metal figure dwarfs Callahan, casting a long shadow in the moonlight. Crouched down and arms folded, waiting for a Pilot, as if it were just moments after Titanfall.

VN-2577, Stryder chassis, Ronin class. He is at the center of a small sunken clearing, surrounded by shallow walls of dirt that clumps of scrubby grass cling to. Rings of dirt and rock radiate from his feet, thrown back by his landing, frame the hex-tiled bubble shield around him.

Callahan’s eyes are glazed, and he walks toward VN as if he is in a dream.

“Get back,” Vicks says, grabbing his shoulder. “This the first time you’ve seen a Titan? It’s in standby mode. We have to wait for Pilot Riggs to disable the shield.” She glances back and sees me walk into the clearing.

VN suddenly moves, joints hissing and creaking, into an upright position. His shield drops and I see small marks on the cockpit that look like tiny scuffs on the metal. I know better, and note that he needs a systems check before any major combat operations. He draws his sword, a crude metal pillar twice as long as I am tall, and stabs it, point first, into the soft dirt.

“Fuck,” Callahan says, his voice cracking. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

I massage an ear with one hand, wishing I would have put on my helmet under my other arm before VN moved. No time to waste on bruised eardrums though. I push back my hair and put my helmet on, then walk up to Vicks.

 _‘First thing they tell you out of sims is that Titans are way louder than you think they are,’_ I write.

Vicks reads it and shoots me a look, eyes twinkling. “All right, Pilot, how long until you and your sonic Titan are ready to kick some IMC ass? We got pinged by the Militia reinforcements in the system, and they’ve set up an extraction zone several miles west.”

_‘Full systems check first. Ships in orbit?’_

She shifts her weight back and looks at the stars. “Our info is spotty. As far as we know the IMC is still camped over the planet, slinging nukes, and our ships are slowly advancing towards us. Advisor gave us a timeline of dropships down the well in five.”

_‘Five hours to walk a couple miles?’_

“Yeah, that and the IMC,” Vicks says.

She’s right. One Titan and four soldiers against an entire IMC ground force. At least the weather is peachy. I walk towards VN and ping him with an embark command. The front of his chest opens, waiting to receive me, and I hike myself up on his outstretched hand. Each of his fingers are as big as my arm and they are cold to the touch.

“Welcome, Pilot Riggs,” he says in his toneless, grating voice. “It is good that you are back. We are more effective as a team.” The sound feels like a solid wall and vibrates my helmet against my head.

I pull myself up and into the open cockpit, turning around and sitting myself in the single Pilot seat nestled among the levers, buttons, and screens that are needed to manually control VN. I don’t link, though. Instead I twist myself up to inspect the cockpit for damage as the door closes. For a moment I’m shrouded in darkness. The front display flashes to life in a trisection and aligns the three external camera feeds, creating a seamless view of the outside world.

“Protocol 1 complete. Link to Pilot established,” VN says.

He stands, jostling me as I finish my check on the all-important neural links. They’re undamaged. The main display is fine, text of the three protocols flashing over the now-tiny figures of the squad, but as I work my way downwards I start to see little round marks dot the metal floor. Curious, I bite down on my glove and pull, freeing my hand, and probe it with my bare finger. It’s a puncture, but the lip of the metal is smooth and unmarred. A piece of munitions didn’t do this.

I move downwards to find a small collection of dents at the bottom of the cockpit. Tiny, fused hunks of metal are lodged in them. I pry one out and snort as it clicks in my brain. When the IMC nuked the _Aurelius_ , her debris had flown through space, punched through the metal armor cleanly and bounced around like hell during entry, having lost enough kinetic energy to actually exit the Titan. With how the rest of my day has gone, I’m not surprised.

“Protocol 2: Uphold the mission,” he says, his voice tinny inside the cockpit. “My sensors have gathered metadata suggesting that we are seeking extraction.”

I spare a second to type a quick confirmation. His internal cameras pick up the text and he replies, “Pilot Riggs, you are not using verbal communication. Is something wrong?”

Callahan’s voice reaches me through VN’s speaker system, saying, “She got her neck cut up pretty bad. Severe damage to the voice box and trachea that’s barely holding on.”

VN is silent for a moment. “Protocol 3: Protect the Pilot… already failed.” He switches his voice to the speaker system. “I am sorry that I could not be there.”

I sigh. _‘Don’t start,’_ I type. _‘I need you at 100% if we’re going to leave this planet alive. Just forget about it.’_

He is silent again, body still, until he finally says, “Acknowledged.”

 _Right._ I give his chassis a comforting slap and haul myself into the Pilot seat. _Hopefully he doesn’t beat himself up too much._ _  
_ I feel a slight electric buzz run through my legs as I prep VN for combat, flipping startup switches and checking ammo readouts. The main display beeps to confirm that the neural links are catching my nerve impulses. My hands grip his joysticks and I flex VN’s fingers like my own, feeling the invisible extra weight that the link added to my muscles.

I let VN load his Leadwall while I type something to him. He slams the massive, cyclical magazine into the Titan-sized shotgun, then projects his voice to Vicks and Callahan, saying, “Pilot Riggs has requested me to relay vocal communication to you. I shall be her mouthpiece.”

He turns, the hiss of his servos muffled in the cockpit, and points toward a skyward red line on his display. “Map data suggests the extraction point is located in near an unknown IMC structure. We must reach there before extraction leaves. Failure to do so means death.”

Callahan rubs the back of his head, still keeping his distance from VN. “Is that the Titan or her talking? I can’t tell—”

His voice dies as VN shifts, then brings up his gun in a rush of sparks and metal. Multiple red contacts spring to life on my HUD, moving rapidly toward my position. Vicks looks over the ridge, then dives down, drawing her pistol.

“Incoming fire, please get down.” VN’s voice switches to the internal speakers. “Transferring manual controls to you, Pilot. The Ronin sword is yours.”

I barely have time to think before the hulking figure of an IMC Titan thunders around the rock bluff, Grunts trailing around his legs, holding a shield of flame with an armored hand. The Grunts open fire, their shots falling short and hitting the soil in puffs, like the footsteps of an invisible army sprinting toward me.

Reflex sends my hands dancing over the controls. VN fires and moves right, Vicks and Callahan forming up behind me, trading fire with the incoming IMC line. VN’s target finder paints the enemies in little red squares, counting and analyzing them.

I frown. Twelve Grunts and one Titan, Scorch class. A sniper round glances off VN’s shoulder, reverberating with a hollow _thunk_ as it spins into the dirt. Thirteen then, one probably with optic camouflage.

“Incoming Titan. Use of Leadwall as deterrence is recommended.”

The Scorch slots a canister into his handheld launcher and fires. The thermite slug sails through the air and lands at VN’s feet, spilling a crackling torrent of white flame. VN’s Leadwall answers in a way typical of its name, its triple barrels briefly replacing the air with steel. The Scorch melts the rounds on his fire shield, but several of the red squares painting IMC Grunts wink out on my display. I don’t bother to count them.

Callahan’s voice comes over the radio. “Hello? We’ve fallen back and are almost to the cave. Vicks called the rest of us and were coming to assist.” I hear a rapid shuffling and several popping noises. “Fucking sniper! That was close. Anyways, Vicks says to focus on the Titan. We’re good with the Grunts.”

“Cal, you’re speaking to a superior officer,” Vicks snaps, her voice coming over the comm channel. “Taking fire is not an excuse to drop formality.”

“Right. Just a suggestion, _Sir_.”

Another voice grates through an open comm channel from the Scorch, deep and grating to my ears. “Enough talk, you Militia bastards. Fight and die like soldiers.”

The Scorch, now moving closer, disengages the blooming radiance of his fire shield and slams down with a closed fist. Thermite ignites and a line of fire bursts from his hand and spreads across my right flank, creating a wall of fire that cuts me off from the path to the cave.

I look to my left and see VN’s sword still stuck into the ground. A savage grin creeps up the side of my face. The enemy Pilot had just unwittingly played his hand, and he was dealt jack shit. He chose to cut off my escape instead of my access to the sword, which was a rookie mistake. A Ronin-class Titan is nothing without his sword.

VN’s maneuvering thrusters slam-firing sound like a bomb detonating as I strafe left, low to the ground, reaching for the sword, until I freeze. A gas shell thunks down into the dirt next to the sword.

_Oh, shit. He’s not a rookie._

I barely get VN’s fingers on the hilt before the Scorch’s thermite launcher fires and ignites the gas, sending a wave of fire washing over VN’s chassis. My mouth goes dry and sweat beads on my face. Heat warnings pop up on the central console, the external cameras showing nothing but a deep red.

“Critical damage to exterior armor detected. Pilot, Scorch-class titans area denial capabilities only become more deadly in tighter spaces. Use of Phase Dash to evade is recommended,” VN says.

I don’t have time to type a response before the fire dissipates. The cameras readjust to the decreased light to reveal a squad of IMC Grunts sprinting toward me, arming Charge Rifles specifically designed to cut through Titan armor.

They don’t get a chance to use them, as I lurch VN forward, crossing the short distance to them, and lash out with the sword. Flesh becomes red mist and more squares wink out.

“Well struck, Pilot. The Titan will not be so easy. Focus, plan, then execute.”

Fire cascades past my left side, igniting the peat in the soil and completing the sloppy box of flame that surrounds me, cutting my last avenue of escape off. I grimly assess the situation, and conclude surprisingly quickly that I’m fucked.

The Scorch fires again, the movements of its hulking frame slow and deliberate. Thermite coats the ground behind VN, boxing me in even further. I have no more time, no more options and no voice. The only edge I have left is turning my boldness suicidal. I breathe out and take my hands off the joysticks, giving control back to VN.

 _‘Do you trust me?’_ I type.

His reply is immediate. “Absolutely.”

I nod, hoping he remembers an old trick from the sims, and pull the eject lever.

My gut stays in the Titan as the ejector charges detonate, slamming me with a solid wall of force that flings me high up into the sky. VN vanishes, replaced with the roaring of air rushing past my helmet.

I rise higher and higher, limbs heavy with inertia, watching the rocky mountain range curve into a smooth horizon line, until my momentum finally runs out and I hang weightless in the sky.

For a moment I’m flying. Not the gut-wrenching, ground-locked, imitation that my jumpkit gives, but truly _flying._ Then it’s gone as gravity’s ever-present fingers catch me and start pulling.

I come down much faster than I came up, boot heel facing downward, CAR raised. The grey shapes of VN and the Scorch rapidly gain definition and size until my depth meter pings and informs me that I’m two hundred feet up. If VN remembers the trick, one hundred to go.

I kill most of my momentum with a quick set of jumpkit bursts, my legs cycling in time with the _snap-hiss_ of the jets for balance, and my gut drops a second time, displeased by the fact that it can’t continue to fall without the rest of my body.

The depth meter hits one hundred and cheerfully informs me that my current velocity is lethal. Below me, VN has his sword up, skirting the edges of the flames that cage him. A thermite shot hits his shoulder and it erupts in flame.

 _He’s not where he’s supposed to be,_ I think, and burn my thrusters to slow my descent.

Suddenly VN disappears in a flash of hazy-white light, leaving behind a thin sheen of radioactive mist. He reappears on top of the Scorch, simply dropping out of nothing as the Phase Dash ends. They slam into each other in a roar of bending metal and sparking electronics and the Scorch staggers back.

A smile spreads across my face. I quickly cut my thrusters and drop like a rock, dumping the first half of the CAR’s magazine as I fall toward the Scorch’s quickly-approaching back. My shots ping off the thick armor, then hit dirt as the Scorch steps backward to evade VN’s manic rush.

I burst my jumpkit to adjust, grit my teeth, and land on the fiery Titan’s back feet-first, legs bending as I crouch to dissipate the impact. My head snaps forward and my knees groan, but I grab a handle and hang on stubbornly as the two Titans stay locked in their mortal embrace.

The Scorch throws a titanic punch, grey metal charring to black as he engages his flame shield and bathes VN’s chassis in fire. Critical damage warnings go off on my HUD and my gut feels like it’s still falling.

VN hits the Scorch’s back, hard. I’m thrown on the handle’s axis, my arm wrenching in its socket, back down toward the many packs of ammunition that are fastened along the Scorch’s spine. I don’t land gracefully, my helmet slamming against his metal back. The Scorch pauses, then a massive, groping hand reaches across the packs and blindly swipes over me.

My fingers find the pin of the grenade on my belt with an animal ferocity, pull it, and tuck it into the corner of a pack filled with shells the size of my head. The Scorch’s hand moves down toward me, spitting a jet of fire that makes my eyes water, but I simply let go of the handle and kick off on to the ground. Something in my knee tears when I land and a lance of pain shoots up my leg.

The Scorch turns and takes one step towards me before the grenade explodes and the thermite shells catch, blowing a hole in his thick frame. He staggers and a light brighter than the sun shines through the hole, the fire burning hotter and hotter as the thermite and gas shells in his packs mix.

He takes another step forward. Black smoke billows from his frame as he raises his launcher, aiming directly at me.

I freeze.

I’m a deer in the headlights, ten feet out on an open field with a wounded leg. Even with critical damage, there’s no way the Scorch is missing the shot. I can’t see VN through the smoke. _Where the fuck is he?_

Seconds feel like years. A spark darts across the Titan’s chassis in slow-motion.

I stand, frozen, until finally the Scorch’s launcher wavers once, then drops as the servos fail and he falls to his knees, slumping down as his reactor loses power. The enemy Pilot ejects in a hiss of escaping steam, shooting high into the air and disappearing behind the mountains. I don’t bother to try and shoot him down.

I sigh and the tension bleeds from my body. I’m alive. I’ve made it this far. VN’s alive. There’s still a chance of extraction. My knee throbs as I put weight on it but I can stand, so I push my rifle behind my back and send Vicks an all-clear on my wrist computer, idly rubbing the scar on my neck with my free hand.

The smell of rotten eggs hits my nose and a distant alarm bell goes off in my head. It clicks too late and I turn to see green mist coating the ground around my feet. The burning husk of the Scorch collapses inward on itself and the flames scatter, igniting the gas.

It explodes, flinging me into the air before I hit the dirt and everything goes black.

 


	3. Chapter 3

I’m slowly brought awake by the seeping warmth of a hard surface against my cheek. Soft humming reaches my ears and wind gently blows my hair across my neck. I groan as I shift my cramped muscles, rolling over to get more of my body pressed against the warmth. Dull pain shoots through my knee, and I reflexively kick my foot down. My boot hits something solid with a clank.  _ That’s not dirt,  _ I think.  _ Wait, why was I in the dirt? _

I hear a voice, close yet oddly distant. “Check on Riggs, then start loading up. I don’t want to spend more than five minutes here.” A high-pitched ringing accompanies it, drilling into my ears.

My eyes open and I find myself inches away from a yellow-and-black radiation sticker, its picked-at edges giving way to a wall of polished metal that curves out of my vision. I turn my head and am greeted by a screen flashing upside-down words, and then realize that I’m lying in VN’s Pilot seat facing the wrong way.

“Alright,” another voice says, male and pitching upwards with stress. I realize it’s Callahan speaking. “I’ll try, but it’s not my fault if that damn Titan won’t let me near her again.”

The other voice must be Vicks. I try to roll over in the seat, to face the wind and clear my head, but I falter and let out the loudest groan my ruined larynx can manage. Somehow everything finds a way to hurt.

“Hey, Pilot,” Callahan says, his voice now close and coming from above my shoulder. “Those painkillers I gave you should be hitting soon. Try to go back to sleep.”

The warm air now feels thick and smothering against my skin. Sleep sounds impossible right now. I ignore the shrieking protests of my muscles and sit up in the seat, bringing myself face-to-face with Callahan peering into the cockpit. My head feels light and my pulse thuds in my ears. I bite the inside of my mouth and keep my eyes focused, locking stares with his.

“Seriously, you may have a concussion. You need to lay down.”

I stare at him for a moment, then continue to pull myself out of VN.

“You’re not going to listen to me, are you?”

I shake my head. 

He sighs and steps aside, letting me drop the short distance to the ground. I draw in a lungful of cool air and feel  _ alive _ again, clarity surging into my brain as vigor returns to my limbs. I take a confident step forward and promptly fall back on my ass as my knee gives.

“Goddammit. Why does nobody listen to me?” Callahan grumbles. 

After that I decide to give myself over to his capable hands. He sets me up with a field blanket and lets me sit outside on VN’s arm, declaring that my throat can take solid food and leaving me munching on a stale anti-radiation bar. He makes an obvious excuse to scout the perimeter and leaves me alone with Vicks. 

She paces back and forth across the clearing, throwing glances at a loose pile of IMC gear taken from the corpses strewn across the now-sunlit field. She stops and looks out at the shimmering waves of grass that surrounds us. They rustle in the wind, filling the silence between us.

Vicks finally approaches me with solid, measured footsteps. Her eyes never leave mine and I take a casual bite out my bar, hoping to deflate some of the tension she’s carrying around her like a cloud. She clears her throat. I take another bite and pretend to savor the bitter, medicine-infused chocolate that rolls over my tongue, mentally preparing for every bad piece of news that she can give.

“We lost four hours.” Her voice is flat. 

VN swivels his main eye and looks at her. “Correct. Extraction arrives in one hour.”

I look at him and nod, then back to her expectantly. One hour is still more than enough for him to cover five miles.

“That’s not the problem. We got bogged down by that damn sniper and couldn’t scout the route. When we finally got him to displace we found this.” 

She pulls up her wrist computer that shows a photo of a wide, foam-filled river with a maroon tint. Metal signs line the bank, displaying graphics of stick figures burning and choking in pastel red liquid.

“It’s between us and extraction. I dipped a rusted knife in it and it came out shiny and new, so I don’t want any of my squad trying to cross it.” She looks towards the horizon, where the mountains crowd under the rising sun. “I think whatever the IMC is doing in the mountains is much more serious than the brass thought. But that doesn’t matter. We’re stranded.

“We’re stranded,” she repeats, quieter this time. She slowly exhales. “Go on without us. Save yourself. You’ve certainly earned it.”

I shake my head.

“I’m serious, Riggs. You’re a Pilot. You have a duty to the Frontier.”

My knuckles strike VN’s hand and she flinches, then looks at me with rapt attention. I point to VN’s hand, then mine. She nods. I gesture to her with my other hand, then my anti-rad bar. Hoping she understands the link, I throw the anti-rad bar into the sea of grass. 

Her eyebrows furrow. “You want to have your Titan throw us across the runoff? Is that… safe?”

“It will hurt,” VN says. 

Vicks rakes her gaze from me to him. I don’t think she’s a fan of my plan.

“But you will survive. The risk is preferable to staying on Typhon.”

Vicks opens her mouth to say something, but the grass at the edge of the clearing parts and Sara emerges, lugging a Kraber slung over her back. The large, blocky rifle is almost as big as her and visibly strains her movements. 

“Done,” Sara says. She unslings the rifle and drops it onto the pile of gear.

Trevor follows her into the clearing, looking at Sara with careful eyes. “Well, the sniper isn’t a problem anymore,” he grumbles. ”Not that I had anything to do with… solving it.”

Vicks raises her voice to address the squad. “Alright, soldiers. We’ve pushed our luck on this shithole of a planet, and it’s time to play the odds once more. Grab your gear. We’re leaving.”

We set off after Callahan returns, crossing the smoldering plain and into the unbroken expanse of forest that stretches to the mountains on the horizon. Four-winged reptiles leap from knotted vine curtains, letting out shrieks of alarm as VN parts the low canopy. Light shines through the holes, bathing the shadowed ground, illuminating the bugs and particles hanging in the fetid air. I sit in the crook of VN’s arm, watching the squad pick their way over roots and under branches.

I see little wildlife as we travel besides flocks of the reptile-birds lifting off to fly above the canopy, scared off by VN’s presence. I’m not surprised. He is taller than the trees and fifty tons of ‘fuck-off’ to anything smaller. 

The smell hits first; a caustic, nose-tingling stench quickly seeps through the jungle air. The swaths of trees ahead thin and dwindle until they are finally cut off by the smooth concrete banks of a crimson river of chemical runoff. 

“It’s lower than last time,” Callahan remarks. “See the line halfway up? That’s where it used to be.”

“Maybe they have peak runoff hours. What is the IMC even doing in the mountains to warrant this much runoff?” Vicks says. She walks past VN and up to the bank. I hear her mutter quietly, “Goddamn need to know basis.”

VN moves out of the trees, Leadwall drawn and ready, and his metal feet grind into the concrete verge as he finds his footing. The horizon stretches before me, no longer obscured by trees, and I see a distant structure which is what I guess is the extraction point.

Beyond the river, the canopy continues for about a half-mile before abruptly giving way to a massive black platform, raised by thick grey pillars that dwarf even the largest trees in the forest. I find myself agreeing with Vicks.  _ What the hell is the IMC doing in the middle of nowhere building megastructures? _ It’s obviously a landing pad, but built for far larger ships than just your average orbital shuttle, which is little more than some seats and a warp core inside a tin can. This looks like it could land a planet-cracker. 

Callahan approaches VN, slinging his Mastiff over his shoulder. He takes a deep breath. His eyes are fixated on VN’s hand. “Alright. Do me first.”

Vicks sighs. “Cal, it’s ten feet wide. We don’t have to throw-”

The sound of gunshots rolling over the forest canopy interrupt her. A flock of reptile-birds, which in my head I’ve started calling flyers, lift off from the trees. My hands quickly find the CAR slung under my shoulder, and I grip it tightly while my eyes scan the horizon. 

“Pilot Riggs,” VN says. “I am receiving a radio communication from nearby Militia forces. Routing audio to your helmet.”

Still sitting on VN’s shoulder, I cast a quick glance at the squad before I reach down to my waist and unfasten the radio strapped to the side of my helmet. I hold it up to my ear and nod at one of VN’s external cameras.

The voice that comes through the radio is tinny and undercut with static. “Left… side… Pilot… -at way… moving in………..... Is… anyone… there?” I hear several louder crackles and the interference spikes. More gunshots roll in like distant thunder before a storm.

“What does it say?” Vicks asks. The rest of the squad has gathered behind her, each of them watching the treeline and clutching their weapons tightly.

“Unsure,” VN replies. “But voice pattern analysis indicates a high-stress environment.”

_ Yeah, VN, it’s almost like he’s in a gunfight. Great deduction. _

I rap my knuckles on the top of VN’s chassis, signalling that I want off. Instead of simply kneeling down, he reaches up and grabs me with his hand. I tense as his fingers close over me, but I let him pick me up and set me gently on the ground. With our current situation, I can only imagine how worried about me he is. Not that he’ll ever say anything about it.

Vicks watches me as I limp my way over to the concrete bank’s edge, then carefully inch down the slope until I’m as close as I can get to the liquid without touching it. Even with my helmet’s air cyclers, the fumes wafting up from the thick red soup are strong enough to make my eyes water. I raise a hand and beckon over my shoulder.

VN draws his sword, filling the air with a raspy metal slithering that tickles my ears and claws its way down my spine. He buries the point into the bank and lets go of the handle. The sword falls towards the river until the pommel thuds into the opposite bank, shattering concrete and kicking up a small cloud of dust. It wobbles once as it settles, the flat of the blade facing upwards toward the sky. 

I can’t help but smile. Even though I’m robbed of my voice, VN still understands. Deep in that mechanical brain of his, he has terabytes of data on me, my body language, speaking patterns, psychographic profile. Some part of me likes to think that he doesn’t need it anymore, but I’m glad he has it now.

“After you, Pilot Riggs,” he says, gesturing to the now-makeshift bridge. 

_ Right. Pilots lead the way.  _ I gingerly set my good foot on the sword. It holds, and I carefully step up and onto the sword. Less than an arm’s length below me, the chemical river hisses and snaps. I need to make this quick. Any sort of surge could easily reach me - and could come without warning, stripping me to the bones from the waist down faster than you can say ‘prepare for Titanfall.’

I cross slowly, occasionally windmilling my arms to regain balance, until I reach the handle of the sword and motion for Vicks’ squad to follow. As they step on, I step off onto the opposite bank, quickly sweeping the trees for any hostiles. 

More gunshots roll over the canopy as they cross, prompting hushed whispers and hurried footsteps. Callahan’s foot slips off, his boot almost touching the runoff, but Sara catches him by the belt and Vicks helps haul him back up onto the sword. 

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He’s fine, except for the sheen of sweat that glistens on his forehead. Not that I did anything to save him, though. In the state I’m in, I can hardly protect people from a goddamn river. How can they rely on me in real combat? 

Callahan approaches after they arrive on the bank. “Close one, huh?” He smiles, but his eyes are in a faraway place. 

I nod to him as he passes, and the squad prepares to walk the final stretch of jungle to the landing pad. 

My helmet radio lets out a burst of static, high-pitched and wordless. I move to turn down the volume, but stop as the channel clears. 

“This is Lieutenant Feris, is anyone there? I repeat, is anyone there? We’re pinned down at the evac site and taking fire from enemy Titan armor.” He grunts into the radio, followed by a mechanical shriek. “Our Titans can’t take much more of this. Did anyone else make it to the extraction zone?”

Another voice comes onto the radio, cold and artificial yet carrying more humanity than the booming tones of a Titan. Must be a Simulacrum. “Sir, looks like an Auto-Titan is coming up from the southeast. Pilot reads as KIA.” 

“Copy that, Stripes. I’ll set a rally point. Hold that flank until it gets here - don’t let that Tone get any closer.” A note of desperation enters his voice.

It’s time to go. I ping VN with an embark command and his cockpit opens.

“What are you doing?” Vicks asks. I forgot she can’t hear my radio. 

VN answers for me, sparing me the hassle of walking over to Vicks and opening my text-edit program. “We are moving to the extraction point to assist a friendly Titan brigade.”

“Roger that. We’ll follow as close as we can.” 

Her eyes flick to me and quickly avert downwards. I can tell she wants to say something more, but I don’t want to hear any more of her well-wishes or concerns. I’ve spent too long licking my wounds. It’s time to earn my keep.

* * *

 

The landing pad looms over me as I push VN at a breakneck pace through the trees. Branches crack as I take him around a bend and fire his thrusters, his lightweight chassis allowing us to practically skate on the twisted jungle floor. 

Walls of rock gradually rise on either side of me and the forest thins. The smell of ash permeates the air, seeping into VN’s air recyclers and overwhelming them.  _ Woodsmoke. The forest must be burning.  _

VN enters what is now shaping up to be a canyon. The wind picks up and speaks a comforting voice, playing low over the speakers. The base of the landing pad, pillars of smooth metal that cut through the rocky crags, provide some cover as I creep along, ending at an unnaturally flat bed of rocks. The IMC have taken this place and shaped it to their liking.

A line streaks across the sky and an overwhelming clap of sound races behind it. I wince. Even though I’m inside VN, my eardrums feel like someone slapped me upside my head. I keep my eyes fixed upwards as we quietly make our way along the rockbed, waiting for a better look at the exchange of fire.

“Apologies, Pilot Riggs. Adjusting sound compensation for supersonic ordinance,” VN says. 

_Right._ _Wouldn’t want to hear that up close without dampeners._

Another shot roars over the canyon ridge, this time passing in front of the sun and distorting it. For a moment there are two suns, refracted along the line of the projectile, confirming my suspicions of it being a Plasma Railgun. Carried by Northstars, the behemoth of a rifle accelerates a chunk of metal so  _ god damn fast _ that it not only travels faster than its own sound waves - it bends light itself.

Now directly under the landing pad, the canyon turns into a moat that shields the pad from Typhon’s wilderness. Signs warning of flooding during rain are hung on retractable doors, closed and flush with the rocky walls. The rooms behind must be dug into solid rock. I wonder how far down the complex goes.

A bridge stretches overhead, with a freight lift designed for heavy machinery built into the wall under it. I ignore it, instead opting for the quieter loading ramp that zigzags upwards like a set of stairs built for giants. 

I ascend and abandon my running tally of what to expect. Two friendly Titans, two enemies— it doesn’t matter. No plan survives contact with the enemy.

The field I arrive at is littered with slagged Titan corpses. 

Acrid smoke lingers in the air. Steam rises from spilled coolant tanks, mixing with the dark browns of hydraulic liquid. The ground is sea of pale rock chips, probably shale, and coated with a menagerie of chemicals, yet devoid of the raging flames that normally accompany Titan brawls. There is nothing here to burn. 

Subtle movement catches my eye - a Northstar painted in IMC red pacing through the smoke, gun ready. Her back is turned to me, facing towards the landing pad, and she fires a rail into a thicket of pillars. Return fire pings off her feet. Small arms. She moves closer to the bridge to get a better angle, and that’s when I pick my time to strike. 

_ Time to go goose hunting. _

The Northstar hears VN running too late. She jumps, her twin jets catching her mid-leap and raising her further into the air, but VN’s hand is already locked around her ankle. She swivels around, training her railgun at me. It starts charging, metal heating to an incandescent orange. I empty a Leadwall magazine into her left jet nozzle. 

With the force of one of her jets gone, and VN’s hand still firmly grounding her, we become a fulcrum of sorts, with a rocket payload designed to lift a Stryder-class Titan burning in one direction: the ground. For a moment we’re trapped in a kinetic tug of war. It does not end well for her. My cockpit becomes a boiler room as the back of the Northstar’s chassis connects with the ground, bursts like an overripe fruit, and spews half-lit rocket fuel into the air.

Undaunted by the flames, I approach the Northstar, sword drawn. Her single, cyclopean eye is still lit, which means that her data core is still intact.  Her Pilot may have even survived, but war is a cruel, hungry beast. VN’s sword plunges directly into its eye, cutting through the Northstar’s chassis and skewering the Pilot seat within. I toggle the blade’s arc coils and fry her data core. 

“Boss, did you see that? I think that’s beyond an Auto-Titan’s parameters,” Stripes says over the radio.

“I’m a bit busy right now, can’t really stand around and watch. What’s the status on that Archer?” I can hear the forced calm in Feris’ voice about to break.

“Out of ammo.”

I hear a crash and a muffled curse. 

“So you’re just sitting around, taking potshots?”

“Yup.”

“Ya know, you’re a real fuckin’ asshole sometimes, Stripes.” He goes silent for a second, then opens a personal channel to VN. “This is Lieutenant Feris, Pilot of Titan KEL-3331. VN-2577, do you read? Is there a Pilot onboard?”

“We read you,” VN replies. “My Pilot is onboard, although she is currently unable to use the radio.”

“That’s fine. I’m pinned down by a Tone behind the central group of columns inside the complex. Stripes’ Titan is down. He’s-”

“There is no need to explain,” VN cuts in. “We have been monitoring your communications and are fully informed of the situation.”

“Oh.”

VN’s voice switches to the internal cockpit speakers. “Pilot Riggs, I suggest we hurry.”

I nod, and take VN up to a full sprint. We thunder across the bridge, sword in one hand, Leadwall in the other. We pass through the main gate, ignoring the lifts to the upper landing pad, and travel deeper into the complex. Square enclosures are stacked like building blocks between the pillars, huddling around larger elevators that go deeper underground. 

I don’t have time to think about what lies below. The burning husk of a Tone shambles into view. An Ion follows, painted orange and adorned with the Militia skull insignia. She jams another core into her Spitter Rifle and takes aim, heat shimmers rising as the rifle’s field generators spin particles to near light-speed. I’ve never piloted an Ion outside the sims, but I’ve heard the cockpit always smells like burnt magnesium.

The Spitter Rifle does its job with cold efficiency, ripping apart the Tone’s armor and exposing its core, the energy weapon devoid of the usual  _ snap-crackle-pop  _ feeling that gunpowder-based weapons have. 

VN’s sprint has turned into a slow jog, and we approach the two Titans just as the Tone’s core detonates. No room to eject here. I guess the poor bastard decided to die with his Titan rather than surrender. The Ion turns to us. Her insignia is painted on her shoulder: KEL-3331. 

KEL’s cockpit opens and her Pilot stands up in his seat. Feris isn’t wearing a helmet - his blond hair is blowing in what passes as wind inside the complex, and he’s wearing a sly grin. “Looks like I didn’t need your help after all!” he shouts over the wind.

The next ten minutes are a blur. Waiting for Vicks’ squad to catch up. VN explaining my throat injury to Feris. A Simulacrum arrives, his plastic combat armor impeccably clean over his robotic limbs, and introduces himself as Stripes. He takes Feris aside and speaks to him in hushed tones. I don’t hear what they say, but I gather that Stripes came to Typhon with a Titan and will be leaving without one.

After their short talk, Feris leaves me with him. “Stripes knows what he’s doing,” he says. “He’ll poke around and make sure you’ll heal right. Once we get off-planet we can see about getting your voice back.” There’s an unwavering confidence in his voice, like he doesn’t think I know how bad the odds are I’ll speak again.

Vicks and her squad arrives in the middle of my examination, providing a welcome break from the silence. Stripes doesn’t seem much for small talk and I wouldn’t say anything even if I could.

“Sir,” Vicks says. “Are we the only ones who made it?”

Feris nods. “Afraid so.”

“Is that all, sir? Your orders?”

“Simple. Stay alive. Get on the ship.” He sighs, then walks halfway to KEL before pausing.

I’m half considering getting up and slapping some respect into Feris until he turns to Vicks. They share a moment of eye contact before Feris says with sudden seriousness, “Try to take prisoners. We don’t need more of this ugliness in the Frontier. We aren’t the IMC.”

His words mean nothing to me. I roll my eyes, knowing that he can’t see my face under my helmet. In my opinion, a rebellion needs to be two things: loud and right. Anything else is just wishful thinking. 

Vicks slowly nods, her eyes fixed on Feris.“Sir, I think we’ll have a hard enough time just surviving.”

Feris sighs. He looks past the pillars at the thin square of sky that is painted a dull orange, seeing the trails of IMC Titans dropping past the treeline. “Optimism’s out, I guess. Alright, rifleman. We hold the line, or we die. How’s that?”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all you beautiful TF fandom writers/readers! I love TF2 as a game (Scorch 4 life) and I've been wanting to write a TF fic for a long time. I'm very happy to finally post the first chapter.  
> Enjoy! Lemme know what you think. Fic will update in one week.


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